


The Night Riviera from Paddington to Penzance and Back Again

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Devil's Foot adaptation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Post S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Mrs Hudson has decided her boys need a little vacation together (after the events of S4) away from London and has booked them an inordinantly (per Sherlock) long train ride from Paddinton Station to Penzance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/gifts).



> See bluebellofbakerstreet's amazing cover here: http://bluebellofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/post/158006808175/so-i-won-iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant-in-the

"This is a terribly inefficient way to travel."

"Well it wasn't my idea."

"It takes eight hours by train and only five to drive."

"I couldn't very well say thank you for booking this lovely trip for us and for offering to watch Rosie, but Sherlock thinks sleeper trains are inefficient and would prefer to rent a car." 

Sherlock was about to say 'why not?' John could see the question coalescing in his mind, but it never quite made it to his vocal chords. John would never admit it, but he kind of liked trains. Trains made you feel like you were going to a more exotic destination. Penzance sounded like an exotic destination. Maybe that's because it made him think of pirates, somehow. 

" _The Pirates of Penzance_ ," Sherlock said. "Gilbert and Sullivan. That's what you were thinking of." John should really be used to this by now, Sherlock breaking into his thoughts, but it never ceased to both amaze and annoy him. "It's obvious you were trying to remember something by the shift of your eyes to the upper--"

"Fine. Yes. _The Pirates of Penzance_."

"Terrible play. Still better than _Cats_ though. Mycroft can never repay me for that. I still don't believe it was an actual illness. A little rouge, a bit of saline, some bee's wax, and you can fool even a doctor, from a reasonable distance."

"I wasn't about to risk getting Rosie sick just to prevent you from spending a day with your parents. Family is...well...it's not like you have to do it too often."

Sherlock humphed in response.

John had been thinking about family quite a bit lately. Hearing his place as family so forcefully confirmed had been the only good moment in what had quickly become one of the worst in his life. Sherlock would probably be able to rank them for him. 'No, John _this_ was actually the _worst_ moment. _That_ was third-worst. And the other was actually a distant sixth.' But he thought of this past year as just pure hell in so many ways, and it had been quite clear, to Mrs Hudson at least, that what Sherlock and he both needed was a little R-and-R. In Penzance, apparently.

John was all for an ocean holiday. So long as there was land beneath his feet. He was a little unsure about taking Sherlock there though. Given recent events, the pirate stuff couldn't possibly be good, could it? But his style always seemed to feature direct confrontation. Maybe it would be a good idea. Mrs Hudson seemed to be better at these sort of things than he was-- saw to the heart of the matter right away. He glanced over at Sherlock. Now would have been a good time for him to break into John's thoughts and assuage his fears about doing the absolute wrong thing. But of course, Sherlock would do no such thing _this_ time.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You are worried. Why are you worried?"

This was not the time to explain how he was concerned for his best friend's mental health. "I don't know. Rosie, maybe?"

"Oh. One of those parent things." Sherlock seemed satisfied with that. "Mrs Hudson is adequate to the task."

"Yes, I'm sure she is."

"Of course you are sure. Which is why that isn't it."

"Concern doesn't have to be logical, Sherlock. Sometimes it just is. You can be concerned for no particularly good reason."

"I see."

Clearly he didn't. Hopefully he didn't, John amended the statement mentally.

They boarded the train and headed back to their 'room', as it was: a two-person berth with a small washbasin and bunk beds a fair bit narrower than a standard twin. John sat on the lower bunk, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so as not to hit his head on the upper one which hung down from the ceiling. 

"Well, this is... functional," said Sherlock.

"The motion of trains is relaxing, plus that last marathon research session has left me a bit knackered."

"Well you did admirably well."

"Yes, and should another case come up involving Chinese pottery collectors, I will be ready to go. Do what you want, Sherlock, but I'm going to take a well-deserved nap." 

"And I'm meant to climb up there?" He eyed the rickety suspended mattress with suspicion.

"I see no other option." That was fact. The tiny room had no chair; it was the other bunk or nothing. "Or you could go out to the main car. Maybe mingle with the public. You might just spot a fan or two?" The blog had been surging in popularity ever since the arrest of Culverton Smith and his subsequent autobiography. Clearly the man enjoyed confessing enough to have done a whole book's worth of it. Thank God the proceeds went to his victims. That had been another reason for the trip. John hoped getting out of London would also provide Sherlock with a safer place to ...decompress...out of the public eye. Perhaps the far west end of the country might be less concerned with London's criminal goings-on. He doubted anyone was that provincial anymore, but one could always hope. And at least there would be a nice cream tea.

Sherlock hung his coat on the door hook, and John watched as he clambered up onto the top bunk and lay there, arms folded across his chest, shoes protruding off the edge of the bed, frowning. John fought a smile, and lost. Sherlock looked ridiculous, of course, but... well, he looked ridiculous is all. 

John kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bunk. This was the only time being short was an advantage, and he made a rather loud sigh as he extended his arms and legs just past the far edge of the mattress before retracting them and curling up. John gazed up at the underside of the top mattress platform. "This reminds me of sleep-away camp. I feel like we should be telling ghost stories. Or talking about girls we like."

Sherlock's voice floated down from the top bunk. "The only ghosts are the ones of our own creation. When you run, they chase you, but when you turn to face them and walk through them, they disappear. And as far as 'girls we like', that would be a remarkably short conversation."

"Oh, you're in a fine mood tonight. You never did text her then?"

"I do occasionally return a text. I shouldn't. I believe in this case, any contact at all seems to imply I am interested in a romantic relationship, and I am not. Well, I say 'romantic'..."

"She wants to jump your bones, Sherlock. I know you don't go for the romance thing, but I'm not sure how much 'romance' you'd actually need."

The train lurched to a start, sending Sherlock rolling dangerously close to the edge. "This is ridiculous." He climbed down from the bunk and headed out of the berth, leaving John alone. He considered following him, but he had already said he was going to nap (and he was, in fact quite tired). Getting up now to follow him was out of the question.

Checking up on Sherlock without him catching on was going to be an ongoing issue. Mycroft's spot-check technique would be laughable if it wasn't so dangerous-- casually dropping potential triggers and scanning for reactions. How could such an intelligent man be so utterly clueless? The jury was still out on whether John's own coping methods for PTSD were effective or not. Hard to tell. But he knew better than to expose himself to deliberate triggers to check on his progress. They'd find him. But then again, Sherlock seemed... fine. He would occasionally grow silent and ask to be left undisturbed for an hour or so, and was clearly delving into his mindpalace for what John could only assume was information on Eurus. He wouldn't discuss it.

Sherlock truly wanted to be able to reach her. John hoped it wasn't a lost cause, and he made every attempt to understand his urge to never give up on her. John had tried to save Harry from something far more mundane than whatever it was Eurus was fighting against, and even that had proven to be too much-- though John would readily admit forgiveness had never been his strong suit. He wondered what it was about her mental state Sherlock felt such empathy for that he was willing to forgive some of the most horrific things John had ever been witness to. Participated in. And they still didn't know the full extent of it, or even gotten a proper diagnosis, for that matter. Mycroft wouldn't let a psychologist near her until he deemed them capable of resisting her influence. All of them failed the vetting. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock tirelessly persisted in his attempts to reach her somewhere beyond words (he even insisted they return to London in time for their violin duet on Saturday), and when Mycroft warned him he was placing himself in danger, he had insisted Mycroft's memories were not reliable either and he needed to do some independent research to draw his own conclusions. And that meant retrieving the memories he had locked away. When he had finished his searching for the day, he sat for a while longer, back in the flat now-- mentally as well as physically-- and quietly processed whatever it was he found. He wanted to walk through his ghosts, then. Well, John resolved to be there if they didn't disappear.

John was about to head out into the car, certainly a nap was no longer feasible with his mind flooded with concern, when Sherlock came back in and commandeered the small space near the foot of John's bed. He sat, and John wedged his toes under Sherlock's thigh without even thinking. Pulling them back again would only draw more attention to his move, so he  
left them there, anxiously feigning cold feet. Obviously they weren't-- there had been something about the contact that just seemed necessary. He felt a faint pressure, as if Sherlock were pushing down just the slightest bit onto his toes. Or maybe he had just imagined it. 

"Nothing appealing on the snack trolley?" John quipped.

"Sometimes it isn't good to be alone with one's thoughts," came the reply.

John wasn't sure which one of them Sherlock was referring to, but it certainly applied to them both. He fought the urge to remind Sherlock he was there if he ever wanted to talk. The last time he had said this he was rewarded with an angry reprimand that Sherlock was well aware of that fact, and he had even said 'stop trying to make yourself feel useful'. It was a low blow, but John figured he deserved it. Not knowing how to address this had been making him selfishly anxious for some sort of action plan. 

Instead, John simply pushed his toes forward a bit more, enjoying the weight, and Sherlock placed his hand lightly over the top of John's stockinged feet, one hand covering both of them. A small gesture, really, and maybe a bit unusual, but it felt... comfortable. John leaned into his pillow and drifted to sleep.

When he woke up a few hours later, the first thing he saw was Sherlock's arse. Sherlock had found the tiny indentation of space where John's neck met his shoulder, and had wedged himself carefully in there to look out the window at the rolling moors. They were dotted with an occasional moss-covered church tower, lonely stone monument or ancient burial mound, and Sherlock seemed entranced by these forgotten tombs and lost civilisations. John was convinced the way to Sherlock's heart was to find something quiet and peaceful and somehow make it morbid. 

He glanced over as John lifted his head. "Even the language is fascinating, John. It's derived from the Phoenician traders who came here for tin." John raised an eyebrow. "I used to steal Mycroft's books on philology. Literally steal. It always made him so cross. Occasionally I would even read them." They both looked out the window now, seated side by side  
on the lower bunk, enjoying the simplicity of the stark landscape and endless sea, when Sherlock's mobile buzzed, causing them both to jolt. It was Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh no. This is meant to be a relaxing vacation, Sherlock. This is not the time for a case."

"John. It just fell into my lap. Besides, we still get the sea air and the brambles and we can skip Penzance and head straight to a little seaside cottage on Poldhu Bay. As a matter of fact, it will be far more bucolic there. Nothing but--" Sherlock pulled out his mobile "-- an excellent cliffside Shakespearean theatre, countless organic farms, the Marconi museum, and," Sherlock pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows, "ummm... apparently a secret nude beach. Anyway, I think you'd prefer it to Penzance. We solve a case and we go on a quiet little vacation afterward. What could be better?"

John had to admit he had a point, and the addition of a case would only serve to complete Sherlock's vision of the ideal vacation. "I promise, we will be done in a few hours at most. Plenty of time to enjoy the sun and sand, and we will be back home by Saturday morning." 

John was, once again, left to wonder if he had any will of his own as they exited the train at Redruth Station and headed off to rent a car. Destination: Poldhu Bay.

Except there was no car to rent. Not that they were sold out, mind you. There was no car rental place in all of Redruth. To get to Poldhu Bay, they would need to take the #37 bus. 

Sherlock grumbled as they bought their tickets and climbed the stairs to the upper level. The scenery, so lovely when they had had no destination in mind, lost much of its charm now.

"Well, tell me about the case."

Sherlock stretched his legs across the aisle to take up both rows of seating, and began.

"A young girl out walking her dog this morning hears screaming-- a man's voice-- as she passes by the Tregennis house, and she calls the police. They check and find the bodies of George, Owen and Brenda Tregennis inside. Their brother, Mortimer, claims he had been visiting them in their ancestral home just last night-- they played cards in the dining room until shortly after ten o’clock-- and all had been well when he left. The reason Lestrade was notified is due to the interference of one Leon Sterndale."

"The philanthropist?"

"Yes. Apparently this is his hometown, and he has momentarily ceased distributing mosquito nets in Asia, digging wells in The Sudan and doing whatever else he was doing wherever else he was doing it to come home for a visit. When he found out about the deaths of his distant cousins, he called in a favor to get not only the local police, but to bring in the best of the best. Which, of course, is me."

John chuckled. His ego hadn't suffered from recent events, at least.

"Lestrade was quite shocked when I told him I was on my way and would be there within the hour. I... might have neglected to tell him that there was another reason I was already in Cornwall."

"Oh, yes. What it would do to your reputation to have someone actually think for a moment you weren't superhuman."

Poldhu Bay did indeed have a museum perched high on a cliff commemorating the spot where the telegraph was invented back in 1901, but instead of quaint seaside cottages there was a large, expensive-looking hotel on the opposite cliff, overlooking a turbulent stretch of sea and jagged rocks. A middle-aged and portly man, Inspector Roundhay lumbered slightly as he came to greet them at the side of the road.

"It is a special Providence that you were already on your way here! Sterndale said in all England, you are the one man we need, and I can't help but agree. I don't know quite what to make of it. Folk are saying it's devilish, Mr. Holmes-- not of this world."

“Well,” said Sherlock, “if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Though I would prefer to exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon that theory."

”Straight from London! You must both be hungry. I'll get you a pasty. My Cindy makes the best in the county."

Inspector Roundhay wasn't joking. John had never had a genuine Cornish pasty before, and it was amazing. Thick chunks of beef and potatoes-- no vegetables to get in the way-- and the flakiest crust. It was heavenly. Sherlock wasn't hungry, of course, but he looked over at him and smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Beautiful cliffside deluxe hotel, delicious food, circling gulls attempting to offer their critique of said food, the warm sun on his shoulders-- it really did feel like a vacation.

"The station is a ways away, so I asked Mr Tregennis to meet us here to give his account to you firsthand." 'Here' was a little pub at the base of the cliffs. "Then we can walk to the scene. It's not too far inland." The officer seemed so amiable that John half expected him to order a round while they were waiting. "Ah, there he is." A tall, thin, spectacled man with a slumped shoulders walked over to join them. "Thank you for meeting with us again, Mr Tregennis. I know it has been quite a shock."

He nodded silently.

Sherlock made a quick assessment of the man. "Yes, thank you Mr Tregennis. Please tell me about last night."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I can't be much help. It's like I told the officer. I went over for dinner. Afterwards, my elder brother, George, proposed a game of bridge in the sitting room. We started at about nine o’clock. It was a quarter-past ten when I got up to go. I left them all seated round the table, as happy as could be.”

“Who let you out?”

“I let myself out. I shut the hall door behind me."

”I usually go to bed early and am up for a walk before breakfast. This morning, I had just started out when I saw the ambulance. It is a small community, Mr Holmes. I was concerned. Then I saw it take a turn up the path to my old family home. I found out later a neighbor had heard frightening noises and called 9-9-9. When I got to the house, we all looked into that room together. There was no sign of violence. Nothing was out of place. Even the cards were still on the table. No reason to think that anything had happened at all...but.... But there they all were...dead. And their faces! I have never seen anything like it. I’ll never get that sight out of my head so long as I live." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Their expressions were pure shock and terror, Mr Holmes," Roundhay said quietly. "I've seen my share of grisly scenes. Well, this one had not a speck of blood, but was still the most horrifying I have ever witnessed." 

"My condolences, Mr Tregennis," said John. 

Sherlock hesitated, then added "Yes. Hopefully we can bring some closure for you,"

The group began their solemn trek up the hillside and through an old gate to the property itself. Sherlock walked slowly amongst the flowers and then back along the path before entering the porch. Looking above at the roof of the house, he stumbled over a watering-pot, drenching everyone's feet and the walkway itself. John automatically muttered an apology on Sherlock's behalf and surreptitiously scrutinized Sherlock as best he could. It was unusual for him to be so unaware of his surroundings, and perhaps he was far worse off than he had been letting on. Were cracks beginning to show?

In the house, the charred ashes of the fire which had exhausted itself overnight lay in the grate. On the table, there were still playing cards scattered over the surface. Tregennis was right, it all seemed the way it likely had been the night before. Sherlock paced around the room, sat in the various chairs and looked out of the window and towards the entryway whilst seated. He got down on his hands and knees and examined the floor and the fireplace with his magnifying glass.

“Looking back at that evening, does anything stand out at all in your memory? No matter how small? Think carefully, Mr. Tregennis, for anything which might help.”

“There is nothing at all.”

“Your family were in their usual spirits?”

“Never better.”

“Were they nervous people? Did they ever show any apprehension, concern for possible danger?”

“Nothing of the kind.”

“You have nothing to add then, which could assist me?”

Tregennis thought a moment. “There is one thing. As we sat at the table, my back was to the window and my brother George was facing it. I saw him look hard over my shoulder, so I turned around and looked also. I could just make out the bushes on the lawn and it seemed to me, for a moment, that I saw something moving. I couldn’t even say if it was man or animal, but I just thought there was something there. When I asked him what he was looking at, he told me that he had the same feeling."

"Did you go to the window to investigate?"

"No. We were back at our game again."

"Why a fire? Did they usually have a fire in such a small room on a spring evening?”

"It was cold last night. And damp. I suggested one when I came inside."

"I take it there was some family conflict, since they lived together and you apart?”

"Once. The family had made some money in tin-mining at Redruth. We sold our company. I won’t deny that there were some arguments about the division of the money, and it stood between us for a time, but it was all forgiven and forgotten. We were the best of friends. But I had grown accustomed to my solitude-- moreso than the others, I suppose."

"Thank you, Mr Tregennis."

Sherlock headed outside in long strides and John hurried to follow. 

"John, what we need now is sea air, sunshine, and patience." He took a deep breath of fresh air. "Assuming he is telling the truth-- and that is quite the assumption-- whatever happened, happened immediately after Mr Mortimer Tregennis had left the room. The cards still lay upon the table and the family had not changed position. Remember, we only have Tregennis's word that his brother saw movement in the garden...and he had been waiting for the right moment to mention it. Amazing, as the night was rainy, cloudy, and dark. Someone would have had to practically place their face against the glass before being noticed. John, you know my methods well enough to have noticed my obtaining Tregennis's footprint for a comparison--" Oh. John pretended to be very interested in a boat on the horizon. "--but there was not a single mark in the garden with which to compare it. And it was directly under the window." 

"If whatever happened, happened, just after he left... and they were still alive as of early in the morning...."

"At least one of them. The girl heard a man screaming."

"Which means...they must have been slowly dying, terrified, unable to move for hours."

The wind picked up as they headed back toward the hotel. John thought he heard a voice and turned around. A man rushed up the hill to greet them.

"Ah, so you are the famous detective and his blogger." He extended his hand to Sherlock. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Leon Sterndale."


	3. Chapter 3

"I thought perhaps I could help with the investigation. That is... if you haven't solved it already?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I apologise if I'm over-involved. They were relatives of mine.”

“Yes. _Cousins_. On whose side?"

“You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes.”

“All part of the job.” Sherlock's smile was forced, and more than a tad disturbing.

“My mother's." He paused before adding, "Not that I could prove it to a detective, mind you." Sterndale's smile seemed far more genuine on the surface, but was somehow no less disturbing than Sherlock's.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. “In answer to your question, there is more to investigate, and I have every hope of reaching a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?”

Sherlock's expression was flat. "I couldn't answer that.”

“I'll let you continue your work, then.” Sterndale turned on his heel and headed back toward the village.

John watched him walk away. “Well, he is certainly interested.”

“Deeply interested—yes." Sherlock moved perpendicular to Sterndale's path for about fifty feet (John followed) before turning to walk alongside it. "I'm sorry, John, but I can track him far better alone. There are ample beaches, and if you head north from here there is a cove where a Spanish galleon sank in the mid 1700s. Might find buried treasure." He began to follow alongside Stendale's path with increasing speed and turned back a final time. "Or you could always try hitching a ride to Helston for the Flambards Experience!" Sherlock was already at the bottom of the hill as he added, without turning his head, some more advice-- something about 'The Blitz' and 'sense of patriotism'-- before he was out of hearing range. 

Well. So much for spending some time together by the sea.

John strolled along the shoreline, occasionally spinning around to watch the tide wear away at his footsteps, leaving the sand fresh and new again. He had sort of hoped this trip would be like that-- a chance to start something fresh and new. He had finally been able to let go of Mary's ghost (literally) and he was navigating fatherhood much better since moving back into 221B. That was always his center. His home. Where his heart was. Rosie and Sherlock: the two people he loved most in this world. 

Figuring out how Sherlock felt about him, though, was next to impossible; Sherlock seemed to shift constantly, ever alert to John's changing needs. Did John want his own space? 'I had a client mention needing to sublet a reasonably-priced place near the Metro line.' Did John need more support? 'Mrs Hudson has finally given up on leasing 221C, so I offered to pay her extra to use it as a laboratory. This has both freed up the upstairs bedroom and made the kitchen much more hygienic, should you wish to share the flat again? ' Was John feeling overwhelmed with taking Rosie to childcare? 'I've been reading quite a bit about early cognitive development. Might I try stacking some blocks with Rosie tonight?' John was frustrated at his complete inability to determine what Sherlock wanted from him. Now, more than ever, John felt like a burden. He was no ex-assassin with a valuable skill set. Just... an old man, raising a young child. 

Wasn't there supposedly a nude beach around here? Now _that_ would have been interesting (and frightening), going to a nude beach with Sherlock Holmes. John had always found both men and women attractive. Different things he liked about each, of course-- not a damn thing wrong with breasts, but my God, show him an inguinal ligament and he wanted to put his mouth on it. He's seen Sherlock's exactly five times. Five times that he had to rush off somewhere, claiming to do whatever lame excuse popped into his head, only to go wank instead. 

There would be no hiding from Sherlock at a nude beach. That John was bisexual probably wasn't a shocker, but Sherlock would know just how much he found Sherlock sexually appealing, no matter what he did to try and hide it. The last thing he wanted was to make Sherlock feel awkward around him. But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes; he probably already knew, and just disregarded it. 

It would be normal to look over at your best friend if you were about to go swimming naked together, right? It would be weird to _not look at all._ So it would be an open opportunity, sure, but being visibly aroused was another matter entirely. Sherlock always wore more layers. John could strip down faster and just... make a beeline for the ocean. Whilst chest-deep in cold water, it would certainly be fine to watch as a naked Sherlock made his way into the surf. He pictured himself observing from the safety of the ocean as Sherlock meticulously folded each article of clothing and then.... Would he jog to the beach? Bounce...a bit? John felt his face heat up and shook his head, all too aware he had been walking along the shoreline imagining Sherlock's cock bobbing side to side. No matter how he framed it, the scenario felt wrong. Anyway, Sherlock would probably just stroll. Why should he be in any hurry? He was simply perfect and everyone could see it-- hiding was pointless. John imagined watching him stroll confidently into the water.

Lots of people found Sherlock attractive. That would just be a part of his daily life. Get up, get dressed, brush your teeth, have people find you attractive. Lots of people found John attractive, too. Maybe not quite as many, but, he got his share of interested looks. Some people got hung up on the height thing. Well, height really doesn't make a damn bit of difference when you are both horizontal, and John could get that message across pretty well with a look.

Every time Sherlock got that sort of attention he either played along to glean extra information, or pretended not to notice and rolled his eyes later. Except for Irene Adler of course. Well, yeah the posh boy likes the dominatrix. That was textbook, wasn't it? So whatever... shook Sherlock's boat... it wasn't what John had on offer. But maybe it could be? If a bit of kink was his thing, John could give it a go. He'd dabbled in bondage. He could... learn the ropes. _Yeah. You aren't gonna win him over with your brilliant puns, Watson._ Or maybe Sherlock was just straight. John wasn't exactly a firm believer in gaydar, but still that didn't feel quite right. More likely he just wasn't interested in sex at all. Didn't matter. Either way, John's interest in him would be awkward and needed to be shoved under the nearest rug.

Wow, he had walked quite a ways now. He decided to turn around. Buried treasure, eh? Maybe he'd find something on the way back. It was getting warm. A quick swim might be a good idea. John stripped and ran into the surf. He'd create his own private nude beach. After a bit of frolicking in the waves, he decided to head back to the hotel. Maybe they'd have a nice dinner-- produce from one of those organic farms Sherlock had mentioned. Maybe watch the stars come out. Yeah, that's not romantic at all. John sighed. How close could you get to being romantic without actually being romantic? His toes under Sherlock's thigh. That was the line right there. Going past that would be dangerous. 

He lay out nude in the sun just long enough to dry off, then put his clothes back on and checked his phone. No texts. And later than he thought. He began the walk back, somewhat concerned. When it started growing dark, the concern blossomed to a panic. He typed "Sherlock?" And waited to hear back. Suddenly not bringing his gun along had seemed like an incredibly stupid decision.

John decided against heading to the hotel first, making better use of the waning light to follow the same path he had seen Sherlock tread. He had no idea how to find Sterndale's home; he could hardly track anyone by their footprints in the grass. John called Roundhay. He told him that he and Sherlock wanted to visit Sterndale's home to warn him of possible  
danger-- as a member of the extended family. Roundhay just chuckled at that, but gave him the address anyway, explaining that most in town suspected the cousins bit was a ruse and they were romantically involved but kept things hidden. Sterndale apparently had a wife. So. Not exactly a cousin, then. If that was true, Sterndale seemed even less suspicious than he had been this afternoon. Even if it was a relationship gone terribly wrong, there would be no reason to kill her entire family. It had to be on a larger scale than that.

John also got Tregennis's address. Sherlock was following Sterndale. Sterndale was trying to solve the mystery himself. Who else could he harass about details of the crime when Sherlock had refused but Tregennis? That was likely where they would both be...Sterndale and Sherlock.

When he got to Tregennis's cottage, it seemed as if it was in disrepair, although the house itself looked structurally sound. The bushes on the side of it were merging into an overgrown hedge, and a fence which had once enclosed the property was tilting over in patches creating small gaps between the slats. Even though there was a neighbor directly across the lane, the home had an aura of isolation. 

John pushed open the gate and was walking up the pathway to the front door when he caught sight of a figure in a side window, partially obscured by a trellis woven with dying vines. Slumped forward on the table was Mortimer Tregennis. John sprinted to the unfastened window, slid it open and crawled through. The atmosphere was contaminated by lingering smoke,  
and when he had opened it, the last dregs had found their way outside...but John hadn't noticed. He was busy staring at the body in the chair, his face turned to the side-- the look of absolute horror on his features was all too familiar.

Tregennis was dead, and Sherlock was still missing. Sherlock had questioned him as if he were a suspect. What if Tregennis had been the culprit, had regretted killing his siblings, and had taken his own life? Seemed unlikely for him to have waited until the next day if that were the case. Maybe another murderer _was_ trying to wipe out the entire family? If it was the same killer, John was confident Sherlock would have seen this coming. He would have been here. John felt a creeping sickness taking over. Sherlock would have been right here. And he would never just wander off like this. Okay, maybe he would. But not without a text first to, well, gleefully inform John that he had found another body.

John forced himself to think positively, despite his growing apprehension. Sherlock was most likely either here, at Sterndale's, or somewhere in between the two. He searched the small cottage for any sign Sherlock had been there, not quite sure what he intended to find. It wasn't like Sherlock would leave a trail of breadcrumbs, or have his scarf sitting in a pile on the floor.

There was a strange odor. Something sweet, but with sour undertones-- like someone making a treacle out of rancid milk. He instinctually looked to the kitchen and saw the burner set to low and remnants of brownish dust on it. That's what they had in common, the murders-- combustibles! The fire, the burner. John clicked the burner off and quickly thew an upside down pot over the whole thing. He opened the windows and doors, but it was a bit late for that. This must be how the poison was administered, and he could already feel the terror as a tangible object sinking into his skin. 

Well. No problem. It would take some time before he had been exposed long enough to kill him. He could be terrified, and still have a job to do. Search this building. First, he would text Sherlock again, just to be certain. Maybe he hadn't been able to respond before, though he knew that wasn't the case. 

**Sherlock. Tregennis is dead. Where are you?**

He hit send and almost swore he heard a faint whoosh somewhere in the house. Then he hit the dial button and let it ring. And he heard it. Muffled, scarcely audible, but, clearly Sherlock's mobile. And it was coming from the far end of the house.

The carpet seemed continuous, no place for anything resembling a trap door or cellar passageway. John examined every inch of panelling, looking for anything hidden. The bookshelf along the back corner seemed to be entirely for show; dust settled along the volumes, except... a small section where the books had been crookedly placed along the shelf, as if returned to their place far too quickly. John doubted he'd find anything as elaborate and expensive as in a movie, where you pulled on a specific book and a magical door swung open, but perhaps a similar, and cheaper, version? He threw a whole section of books onto the floor and spotted what looked like a handle for a sliding panel. It wouldn't budge. Secret or not, a door was still a fucking door...and a fucking door could be broken down. He placed his ear against the panel and called again. The ringing was definitely coming from behind it. He yelled for Sherlock, and thought he heard an unintelligible voice reply. 

John went to the fireplace, ignoring the dead man, and grabbed a poker. Before smashing away at the thing, he searched again for any hinges-- and found none. It appeared to be on some sort of sliding track which refused to slide. John wedged the poker at the inside edge of the bookcase and pried it with all his might. It didn't slide, but it did jump the track, creating a small gap. There was another burst of smoke in his face and this time John was entirely aware of it, but still concerned only with the body he saw. Sherlock was slumped on the floor, his mobile next to him as if he had tried to contact him, but had been unable to do so. John kneeled down next to him. Sherlock wasn't moving, his face was frozen and contorted from pain... exactly as Tregennis's had been.

No. No, he can't be dead. He can't be. But. Sherlock's skin felt cold. John sank to his knees, shaking. He looked for any movement of his chest, checked his pulse. Nothing. There was no doubt about it. Sherlock was dead. 

Which was why John had no idea how to react when he heard him speak.

In a voice made of pure grinding gravel, barely pushing past damaged vocal chords, he forced out..."Yes, but not you this time.... I know.... John?.... You're not real. I created you."

"Sherlock!" One of these was an illusion-- what he was hearing or what he had seen and even felt. John didn't have time to debate, he simply put his faith in the fact that they were both alive and needed to get the hell out of there. "Sherlock! Oh thank God! I am _real_ Sherlock. I'm real and I'm right here. I can't say for sure about anything else. Now let's get out of here." He hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's and pulled him steadily toward the door. 

The passageway he had created was too narrow. Sherlock could walk through it easily enough, if he could walk, but John couldn't drag him through like this. His shoulders were far too broad. John tried to turn him on his side, but his body slumped forward.

"That's not your fault. It's not your... Oh, John. Thank you. I'll just rest here. It won't be much longer. Then you can leave. When I'm gone." 

"Sherlock, you can't stay here. You need to get out. Come on. Please. I don't think I can get you through here, and I don't have time to get help. Please. Just. Walk with me?"

His tone was calm resignation. "Thank you for staying, John but I'm doing much better now. You can go."

Sherlock wasn't looking in his direction. Wasn't talking to him. Or rather, the John he was talking to wasn't him. They were both hallucinating, they must be. John's mind swirled around and finally grabbed on to a moment from his past-- when he was reading All Quiet on the Western Front in class. A solider carrying his comrade-in-arms out of the battle to safety, slinging him on his back for miles, only to find the man he had been carrying had been dead all along. Maybe Sherlock was already dead. Maybe he wasn't. He would carry him for miles and miles until his head was clear enough to find out. John inched Sherlock closer to the sliding door. It was closing by itself now. Sealing them both inside. That couldn't be happening. That was impossible.

Then he heard another voice. Not Sherlock this time. It was Tregennis. shouting at them. No, no it was Sterndale. "It's a hallucinogen, Dr Watson. You need fresh air." John didn't question his presence, or even his very existence, he was simply grateful for another set of hands. Together, they turned Sherlock sideways and made it through the opening and out of the house.

For a few minutes, Sherlock didn't seem much better, and John had feared the worst, but he gasped and finally looked John in the face. He smiled weakly. "Oh. John... is... real," was all he said.

His awareness slowly returning, Sherlock looked around him to get his bearings as Sterndale headed back toward the house.

"Tregennis is dead. Thank God I was able to find you in time." John gathered him up in his arms; the simple motions of Sherlock breathing, even if unsteady, was the best feeling in the world. He relished in it silently for several minutes before talking again. "Um. Back there, what was...who were you talking to... before...me? The other person you said, 'not this time' to?" John needed to know. This must be jealousy. How odd, that he should feel jealous at a time like this. It didn't seem like Irene...

Sherlock rolled to his right, away from John and into the grass. He plucked a pebble off it and flicked it with his thumb toward the house, then pulled up a blade of grass, split it down the center seam, and began to speak without looking up. "It was Redbeard. This is so strange, to need to clarify what I mean by that. My setter. The last time I was... when I was shot he came to help me stay calm. To keep me from going into shock. But I couldn't have him there this time. Not when I knew he wasn't real. And I told him that. But he brought me you. To wait with me."

"You waited with me, for me to find you?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"No. You were....waiting with me....until you died."

"Yes."

John shook his head. He couldn't process that until he was sure they were beyond danger, that Sherlock would make a full recovery. "I have no idea what the aftereffects of this thing are. So stay next to me. Please."

Sherlock nodded softly and rested his head against John's thigh. John's hand wrapped around his head. He stopped short of stroking his hair.

Sterndale returned, approaching cautiously. "Inspector Roundhay said you were planning to head to Mortimer Tregennis' place. I thought I'd stop by before I left and see if I could help you solve the murder."

Sherlock straightened himself up and looked at Sterndale. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say, help you _not_ solve it?

"I understand you weren't making much progress, Mr Holmes," Sterndale quickly responded, "but I had no idea it was quite that hopeless a prospect."

"No, that is not what I meant at all, Mr Sterndale. I meant that you came here with the intent to interfere. To be sure, one last time, that you didn't leave any incriminating evidence when you murdered Mortimer Tregennis."

Sterndale's jaw set hard and he narrowed his eyes. "If this is how you get your results-- by accusing everyone in sight and seeing who confesses-- well, I can see calling you in was a big mistake."

"Oh, but you did leave incriminating evidence. I saw it. The pebbles and the remains of a cigarette. You ground it with your heel and you removed the filter but not the dropped ash." Sherlock coughed for a good ten seconds before continuing in a raspier voice. "I know ash; 243 types of tobacco and those bought on foreign soil are especially easy to distinguish."

Sterndale paled. 

"It was quite clear Tregennis was the murderer. I only lacked proof of the technique used, though I strongly suspected something combustible, and if he did not throw the substance into the fire at the moment he left the room, who else could have? Had anyone else come in, the family would certainly have risen from the table. Besides, in peaceful Cornwall, visitors do not arrive after ten o’clock at night. I hope frankness may beget frankness. What my next step will be depends entirely upon what you have to tell me. But first... let's summarise. You came to ask me whom I suspected. I refused to answer you. You then walked past Tregennis's home, waited outside it for some time, and finally returned to your cottage.”

With just a quick glance at the man's face, Sherlock answered his unspoken question. “I followed you.”

“I saw no one.”

“That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. You spent some time pacing your cottage floor, and you formed certain plans which, thinking I was nowhere near catching the culprit, you proceeded to put into action. You filled your pocket with some reddish gravel from your walkway.” He stared at Sherlock in amazement. “You then walked swiftly for the mile which separated you from Tregennis's home. You passed through the orchard and the side hedge, coming out under his window. You drew some of the gravel from your pocket, and you threw it at the pane."

Sterndale swore under his breath. “You are the devil himself!”

Sherlock took that as a compliment. “It took two, or possibly three, handfuls before he came to the window. You entered through it, concerned the sole neighbor might see you if you used the front door. There was a short discussion, albeit a heated one, and you threatened him. Then you stood on the lawn outside, had a smoke, and watched as Tregennis died."

"You were watching me this whole time? You saw all of that?"

"No. After following you to your home, where I avoided the red gravel walkway which would have alerted you to my presence, I headed straight to Mr Treginnis's. I knew you would visit him, and I wanted to get there first and position myself properly.What I observed a few moments ago whilst recovering on the grass..the gravel by the window and the cigar ashes, simply provided the missing pieces I knew would be there." Sherlock turned to face John. "I didn't observe you coming here, Mr Sterndale. Tregennis was quite aware that I found his behavior suspicious and he decided to keep me from turning him in by knocking me out and locking me away until he could procure more of whatever he had used to kill his siblings with. Or maybe he just wanted to leave England, but, I should expect that would have made his inheritance all the more difficult to get. If I succumbed to whatever mysterious force took his family from him during the course of my investigation, he would only garner more sympathy as the lone survivor. " The fury radiated off of Sterndale in waves. "So no, I did not follow you." 

Sherlock, placed his arm on John's shoulder and stood up slowly. "I spent the last several, rather unpleasant, hours either unconscious or wishing I had been, until you both found me. But your story is far more interesting." Sherlock turned to face Sterndale. John rose as well.

"You left, presumably to see the inspector and establish an alibi after the fact (since the time of death wouldn't be very precise), then returned later under the guise of "helping" to be sure you had not left anything behind. I already know, as you can see, exactly what you did. What I want to know now is why. And you can start by explaining to me why of the three people who were killed, not counting Mr Tregennis, of course, you only really cared about one."

"I....yes. I only cared about.... Brenda." He trembled as the words came out and looked back up at Sherlock through rapidly-forming tears. "How did you know?"

"Well, at first I will admit I thought it was revenge for all three. But you said wanted to help solve the _murder_. Singular. It was just the one you cared about. The love of your life and the reason you kept returning to Cornwall."

"She wasn't my cousin. She was the one. But she loved it here, and wouldn't leave. I went away...and... I had married someone else I met during my travels. It was a poor decision, and I ended it. And now I had come back to make her my wife. And this... this is my reward. By her own brother! He killed her over property! I would have paid him the value of this house and land ten times over if he would have spared her. He could have taken her brothers, for all I care. They were nothing to me. Crude, tactless, full of prejudice, despising all the things I wanted to accomplish as I tried to do my part to make the world a better place. But Brenda-- Brenda was a rose growing out of that dungheap of a family. I should have made her come with me. Now she is gone." Sterndale struggled to maintain composure, avoiding them both and instead looking down upon the swirling charybdis where doubtless many sailors had met their end at an unexpected shift of winds.

John may have been addressing Sterndale, but his eyes never left Sherlock, who still looked ashen and unsteady. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss. It's all the more tragic that you had moved on -- married someone else and realised far too late that it had always been her. Mr Sterndale, if I had a love like that, and if that poison had robbed me of my chance for us to be together again, I would have done the same. I would want the man responsible not just to die. I'd want him to suffer."

Sterndale cleared his throat. "It was a horrible death. Only the same experience could possibly be justice."

Sherlock locked eyes with John and spoke. "To have come back after so long abroad, and now she lies beyond your reach, leaving you with nothing but regret for not having taken her with you. I am so sorry for your loss."

He nodded. "We should have been inseparable." Then he took a small packet from his coat with “Radix Pedis Diaboli" written on it and handed it to John. “I understand that you are a medical doctor. Have you ever heard of this?”

“Foot... devil's foot root? Never.”

“It is no reflection of your competency. I honestly believe there is no other specimen in Europe. The root, as you can see, is shaped like a cloven hoof-- hence the name. It was once used as an ordeal poison in West Africa." Sterndale sighed "You already know so much; it's in my best interest that you know the whole thing. For Brenda's sake, I attempted to be friendly with her brothers. I knew there was a family quarrel about money, but it was supposed to have all been forgotten. One day, Mortimer came to visit, and I showed him some of my African souvenirs-- among them, this. 

"I told him about how it stimulates fear. A small amount tested a young man's courage and faith; too much led to madness and death. The tradition is shunned by modern Africans, but there were ceremonies taking place as recently as the turn of the century. I ... even told him how powerless European science would be to detect it." His face alternated between sorrow, regret and fury. "I never left the room, and I have no idea how the bastard got his hands on it, but he did. He asked a lot of questions about it-- and here I was thinking he was interested in the religious ceremonies of another culture. Of course he wasn't. 

"He thought I had left that morning. I intended to-- and to ask Brenda to join me-- but she wanted--" he paused and swallowed hard, "--to spend another day with her family before leaving her home. You were right about every detail. I threatened him with the gun I keep for my protection when traveling. I lit the gas stove, put some of the root on the burner, and stood outside the window, ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to escape. You can take what steps you like. In all England there can be no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do, and no man living who fears death less."

"And you helped find me?"

"Dr Watson found you. I only helped to carry you out. Though I'm sure he would have found a way without my assistance."

“What were your plans? Before you came to see if we were suspicious of your involvement." Sherlock asked at last.

“I had intended to lose myself in central Africa. My work there is only half finished.”

Sherlock looked over at John, who gave a simple nod. “Go and do the other half,” said Sherlock. “I, at least, am not prepared to stop you.”


	4. Chapter 4

John had insisted on testing them both for hypoxia, and then they had to give a statement to the local authorities explaining they had gone to question Tregennis and found his body, but had to leave the premises due to the toxic fumes. It was quite a bit later than either of them expected when they finally returned to the hotel. Sherlock gazed out the window onto the open sea. "The largest single pirate haul in history occurred on Lizard Point, about a mile south of here. Long Ben Avery looted an Indian ship belonging to the Mughal Emperor. 80 million pounds, by today's valuation."

John couldn't help but frown.

"What?"

"Nothing." Well, that was never going to cut it. Sherlock would know damn well it wasn't nothing. "I mean all the pirate stuff. It... doesn't bother you?"

"Why shou-- oh." John couldn't believe it. Had Sherlock not given it much thought until he had so stupidly brought it all up just now? And now that he'd-- "Oh no, John. I'm not in any way troubled by thoughts of pirates. My entire psyche wasn't forged out of trauma, no matter what my brother might imply. I was fascinated by pirates long before I met Victor at school. And the previous summer we had played superheroes, as a matter of fact."

John smiled at the thought of a young Sherlock running around with a cape.

"Yes, I was absolutely adorable. Anyway, my interest in pirates did wane briefly when I saw a documentary on modern piracy in Somalia. But I argued that they weren't the same breed, and should be called hijackers instead. Pirates, by my definition, wouldn't kill anyone if the ship surrendered-- counterproductive if it were to become known that a crew took no prisoners. The vanquished would fight till the bitter end if that were the case, but if the pirates were of the life-sparing sort, ships would surrender quickly. And furthermore, historically, pirates were treated better than the members of the Royal Navy. All crewmembers had equal say in their governance as well as equal access to treasure, and stealing from each other was severely reprimanded. In contrast, the British government raided enemy ships just the same, but the Royal Navy gave you £2 a month instead of 5 shares of treasure. That pirates were better in every way, compared to Mycroft's precious Admiral "England expects that every man will do his duty" Nelson, served to reinforce my loyalty to them. Mycroft grew up to become an admiral. I grew up to become a pirate."

John wanted to kiss him. John really, really wanted to walk right over there and fling him against the wall and kiss him and take advantage of the one second's worth of surprise to gain the upper hand. What if he did it? No, really, what if he did it right now... it would be...oh. Sherlock was looking at John looking at him... a crease in his forehead. John decided to think of something else right quick. The train schedule. "If we call Inspector Roundhay, now, we might not have to take the bus down to the train station tomorrow."

Sherlock punched something into his mobile. "Trains every hour. It would be best to call him in the morning. He will need to see his work schedule before he agreed to anything, and that is in the planner on his desk. The 9:47 gets in at 3:21, which is sufficient time to retrieve my violin and catch the helicopter."

John had already opted out of this visit to Sherrinford. It wasn't because it was a family concert (he was certainly given family status now) but he would much rather spend his time with Rosie instead of Eurus. He wasn't about to deny that Sherlock's sister unnerved him-- for many reasons. Beginning with the way she analysed him so astutely on a bus (finding the right words to lure him in had been easy as pie for her) and ending with the way she tried to drown him in a well. And he already felt especially fragile. Weak, actually. Tired.

Sherlock broke into his thoughts yet again. "I feel it, too. I suspect the drowsiness is a lingering side-effect."

"You are actually tired at a reasonable hour?"

"Yes. And to think... all I needed... all this time... was a near-death experience."

"Not just any old near-death experience. Lord knows you've had your fair share of those."

"True. They were generally less than soporific." 

John felt bone-weary, as a matter of fact. He gestured for Sherlock to come sit beside  
him on his bed. Sherlock joined him. "Hand," John stated.

Sherlock gave him a quick glance through his lashes. "Hand-holding, John? After a dramatic rescue? Not very ambitious of you."

John cut his awkward feelings surrounding the flirting-that-probably-wasn't with a chuckle. "I need to look at your fingernails, you git." He pressed down on the nailbeds and watched them quickly return to their usual colour.

Sherlock collapsed backwards onto the bed in a heap of melodrama. "I don't think I want to move. Do you mind?" John shook his head. He didn't mind one bit. Plus, he was equally unlikely to move. Each claiming a section of bed, they didn't attempt to touch, but they didn't attempt not to either. 

John finally decided there was no way around it, he simply had to force himself up to pee. When he came back, Sherlock was out like a light. John smiled, and rather than head over to the adjoining bed, he found a way to fit right there, next to a sprawled out Sherlock, even if it was ridiculously narrow.

***  
John awoke to the sound of a panicked Sherlock pacing the room.

It was 9:52.

Sherlock was throwing everything in sight into his suitcase. "We can still catch the 10:47 which gets in at... he pulled up his mobile, and then froze before collapsing onto the second, unslept-in bed. "There is no 10:47 train. The next one leaves at 11:29." He sat up, furious, ready to pace again. "There is _absolutely_ no logic to that! Why would they...oh. Food." The rage drained out of him all at once.

John wondered if they could possibly find a car and beat the train, hopping on at the next stop? Sherlock was already shaking his head. "We didn't call Roundhay last night. He won't be ready. We won't make it in time. There's nothing for it." He began to spout out a series of jumbled thoughts, brushing each aside with increasing distress. "I could...maybe they could bring the helicopter over here to...no, I'd need my violin, and-- Well, there is still time if _they_ go there first and fetch it, but Mycroft would--"

"Sherlock. You go every week. This week you can't make it on account of nearly dying and being knackered as a result. Call Mycroft. Express your regrets, and have him pass them on." John sat up and glanced around for his shoes. Not finding them, he began to search the room. When he found them, he returned to the edge of the bed to lace them up.

"I was.... We can't just cancel, John. I have been steadily eroding her barriers. I can reach her. I know I can. And to not be there is a major setback. I... could.... If they extended their visiting hours--" He continued his pacing.

"I doubt they would break any sort of protocol, given their previous experiences with Eurus. Sherlock. Sit. Please. You are making me dizzy."

"Thought requires either absolute stillness or absolute motion."

"Look.... You are not her therapist." Sherlock let out a short and biting laugh. 

"No. What I am is her only hope. And I can not give up on her."

"You are not giving up on her!"

"It will seem that way to her!"

"No it won't. She is as close as it gets to omnipotent, and she will damn well know you are not giving up on her, and everyone will know what you bloody-well say is absolute truth because it _is!_ Now sit the fuck down, and stop this!"

Sherlock remained standing and stared at him. His voice was quiet now, but even more insistent than before. "I have been given one chance, John. One chance to save someone. A chance to prove I am worthy of-- To prove I am capable of empathy. To offer my forgiveness to someone who never had a chance at relating to anyone in a normal way. Of showing love in any recognizable form. I understand why she is the way she is far better than Mycroft, and she will destroy anyone else that comes close to her."

"She might just destroy you too."

"That is a chance I have to take."

"No! It isn't!" John stood up straight. "Sherlock, you have always helped people. You saved my life. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have lasted another week in that bedsit. And you knew it. You saw it. You went out on a case and you turned back around and you took me along with you because you knew what I needed to make me care about life again."

Sherlock finally sat down on the second bed, and John sat directly across from him on the first. "That's...that's not the point."

"No, but that's the truth. And the point is what? That you have to risk it all to prove that you are a good man by trying to save the person who wanted to kill us both? I don't intend to ever forgive her, and if you want to, that is your right, but goddamit it, Sherlock, don't you go doing this because you think you owe the Universe any fucking thing, or to prove you are worthy of being loved because I already know you are worthy of being loved because I fucking love you, okay? I fucking completely, mind, body and soul, fucking love you and you do not have to prove yourself to me or to anyone...let alone a hopeless fucking psycho who deserves to be locked up forever and...and I'm....and I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I.... Fuck." John dropped his head in his hands.

Sherlock looked up at John, and then looked quickly away. "Which part?"

"What?"

"Shouldn't have said which part....exactly...." He plucked a piece of lint off his trousers.

"I shouldn't have called your sister a psycho. I shouldn't have said she was hopeless either." John thought about all he had just said. "I'm...not sure about the locked up forever part either. I do think it's true, but it was not exactly helpful. And... And as for the rest....I...."

Sherlock forced himself to make eye contact. John stared into those brilliant blue eyes and pressed his lips together in a wavering line. "I am sorry if it offends you. But I wouldn't take a word of it back."

"As do I, you. John. All of it. This is...this is something to be discussed at home, perhaps? Give us time to...process this."

John's eyes widened, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Sherlock looked down at the case thrown on the floor, clothes spilling out in all directions. "But. I am not doing this just for her. It will help me. To end it. And to really see how different she and I are, because in so many ways we are exactly the same. I could have been just like her."

"No, you couldn't have."

"Under different circumstances, I would not be the me you know. I could have been Eurus. I could have been Moriarty. But I'm not. And I need to remind myself of that fact, and _help_ her. Not out of obligation, not to prove my worth-- but out of gratitude. Because that wasn't my path... and that isn't me."

John nodded. He didn't agree. Not one bit. But what Sherlock was saying made sense.

There was a knock on the door. 

Officer Roundhay spoke loud enough to be heard clearly through the wooden barrier. "Sorry to disturb you gentlemen, but may I come in? There has been a development in the case."

John opened the door. "What is it?"

"It's solved. Once we got the all-clear to go in this morning, we found this near Mortimer Tregennis's body." He held up a folded piece of paper. "Suicide. He left a note. Fascinating story."

John looked over at Sherlock, and then back to Roundhay. "Can you tell us all about it on the drive to the next town over? I'm afraid we missed our train and we do need to get back to London as soon as possible."


	5. Afterword: AKA "Sex on the Train"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was dared to subtitle this fic "Sex on a Train". The title is long enough already, so here it is for just the chapter title ;)

On the drive, Officer Roundhay had read them Mortimer Tregennis's "confession": argument over the property, stole the poison from Sterndale, couldn't live with the guilt. Then he went on to explain how Sterndale had been home-- lucky thing they caught him in time, as he was about to leave for Africa-- and had been surprised to find that, yes, the cabinet in which he kept his souvenirs had been broken into and some items were missing (amongst them this strange herb called Devil's Foot). Sterndale hadn't noticed, being so busy preparing for his trip, as well as so distraught over the death of his cousins. It was all a very tidy package and Sherlock congratulated Roundhay for having left no stone unturned-- not even the tiniest of pebbles. As they arrived at the station, Roundhay shook his hand and apologise profusely for having wasted his time. John said it had been well worth the trip. Roundhay waited with them, all three sitting on the bench in awkward silence, until the train arrived.

"Sherlock? This is a sleeper car. But...they only offer the sleepers for the midnight departure? Why would they.... They must be bringing it back to Paddington for some reason. Maybe there was an issue with one of the trains, and they are running the other to Paddington and back again on an amended schedule until it's resolved?"

"Both Night Rivieras leave at midnight, from each station. Bringing one train back and forth between the two wouldn't help matters. They would just fix it at Penzance and wouldn't run it at all if that were the case." 

As porter collected their tickets, John asked him why the Night Riviera was running during the daytime.

"Oh, they're just bringin' 'er back t' the main station for a "remodel". Tah be honest, I think that just means some new blankets and a fresh coata paint-- but while they're both in Paddington, they're gonna spruce 'em up, take some pictures, do a fancy luncheon t' celebrate the relaunch of the line, so ta speak, and then send 'er back this afternoon in time for the regular run outta Penzance tonight. I hear they're gonna go back t' the original green, insteadatha blue. I dunno. I kinda liked th' blue." The porter winked at John. "Y'know, most people just get on the train, they don notice which one i'tis. You're the only one who asked why we're runnin' a daytime sleeper...cars 'n all."

"Are the...sleeper cars still available?"

The porter raised his eyebrows, suddenly realising exactly who he was talking to, although he tried to pass it off as if he had known from the start, and whispered conspiringly, "Oh... yeah... you two are hopin' for a bit'a privacy. Whole family loves your blog, Doctor Watson. My daughter, 'specially. I bet all fans ar'nt quite as willin' ta give ya some space, eh? Bet they got tonsa problems for you two t' work through for 'em before we pull inta Paddington. Tell ya what... go ahead and pop inta Room 3. Here." He handed the key to John. "Don't plan on too longa nap, though. The train doesn't go at half speed, like durin' the night run."

***

Sherlock sat on the bottom bunk of what looked to be exactly the same room they had occupied on the outbound journey. "Thank you, John. I know you... don't exactly approve of my wanting to keep my appointment."

"It doesn't matter what I think. It is important to you. And...that makes it important to me...if...we are...." John stared at Sherlock, then cleared his throat. "All of it?"

Sherlock tilted his head down, then looked back up at John, still standing beside the doorway and nodded. "All of it."

"But you must have known. You always read me like a book. There is no way you couldn't tell."

"Sexual attraction is an exceedingly intricate combination of factors and for anyone to ever act upon those feelings requires a complex alignment of the conscious and subconscious mind, along with the desire to follow through on those inclinations without regard to any negative precon---"

"Sherlock..."

"Yes. I knew you found me to be superficially attractive."

"Superficially?"

"Well, it would have been presumptuous of me to assume that an attraction would mean that you desired a.... John. It's me. I'm ...difficult at best. Would you really want to have an intimate relationship with _me_? Being my friend is taxing enough. Anything more and...I'd drive you to madness. I'd say worse than any African root, but, well, I know better than to suggest that. Still, I can't do this sort of thing. I didn't even do the friendship part right." 

John sat down beside him. "Well, yes, there was a learning curve involved, but I think you've just about got it down by now, don't you? And besides that, anyone who knows me would say anyone trying to drive me to madness would be wasting their time...I'm already there. You've been living with my madness, and I've been living with yours, for how many years now?"

"It's been--"

"No, don't answer that. It'd only remind me of how much goddamn time we have wasted, each thinking the other one wasn't really interested. Can we, just stop that. Right now. For me."

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Now where were we? Oh, at this part..." John leaned in and gave Sherlock a soft kiss. "Right about there, I should think."

Sherlock smiled. "Maybe more like, here?" Sherlock's kiss was more intimate, still sweet, but with an opening mouth and somewhat confident tongue.

"Narrow bed. I think the only way we will both fit on this thing for a short rest is if I'm practically on top of you. Bulky coat, too. Might just want to remove that. Takes up valuable space. Oh, and, suit jacket too, while you are at it. It'd wrinkle."

Sherlock stood up and made his way to the door to hang up his coat with decorous grace before turning back to face John. "Can we simply pretend I replied with whatever witty banter it took to get you completely naked? If we just accept us both as charming, I'd rather we put the rest of our travel time to better use."

"Done." John focussed on stripping off all clothing, down to his pants, and depositing them unceremoniously in a pile near the foot of the bed. Sherlock did the same, save for laying his clothing across the top bunk. Then they made quick eye contact, an unspoken confirmation, before removing their pants as well...followed by an attempt to not simply stare at one another while still not exactly doing anything else.

John spoke first. "We are really going to do this... on a train? Weren't we waiting until we got home to take things further?"

"That was before the good people of Cornwall saw fit to bless us with an unexpected sleeper car. Plus that would make it at least somewhat of a first-time experience for both of us. Even up the playing field a bit?"

"Never?"

"Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Ok, then." John moved aside and beckoned him toward the mattress. 

Sherlock smiled. "You first." 

John reclined dramatically onto the tiny cot, and Sherlock was on him in seconds, pining his hips down and nibbling along the upper edges. "We could kiss first...?"

"Do you _want_ to kiss first?" Sherlock asked between tiny sucks along John's pelvis. 

"Not especially, no." John gasped. "Yes... right there. How do you know these things?"

"It makes sense to be regularly drawn to... ogling... the spots you personally find the most erotic -- the most sensitive areas of your own body. On me, you always seem to look right here."

"When....when you are lounging about with your pajamas sliding half off, yes."

"I didn't mind that you looked, John. I liked that you looked. I was hoping you were thinking of me. Up in your room at night. All alone. Unable to sleep. I wasn't able to sleep either." John's cock twitched. "And I was thinking of you. And then, in the morning, hoping I'd see a stain on your shirt, a sticky bit of stomach hair, some evidence of just what you had been up to the night before on view sometime between breakfast and your shower." Sherlock moved over to kiss the trail of hair at the bottom of his stomach.

"And did you....ohh my g....did you ever see...evidence?"

"Continually."

Sherlock ran his tongue down to the tip of John's cock, pushed the foreskin back with his lips and began a series of light kisses.

"Mmmmm. You... Certainly don't waste time on....kissing, then?"

"This _is_ kissing, John." 

John laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is."

"And this is licking." 

"Y...yes it is. Very much so."

"And this," he demonstrated for a full minute before making a proclamation, "is sucking."

"The educational opportunities that go along with," John groaned before being able to continue, "being in love with a genius."

Sherlock didn't stop what he was doing, didn't outwardly appear to be affected by the words, except John couldn't help but notice the slipping of hands beneath him, drawing him closer with a tight squeeze...almost like a hug, if one was to romanticize the gesture. Followed up with something which didn't feel like it would fit into the "hug" category at all. John's voice cracked. "Sherlock...are...."

"I think the goal is clear enough, John, whether or not one has practical experience. I've four hours and nineteen minutes till we arrive, but lets call it an even four and leave those nineteen minutes to look a bit less debauched. Still plenty of time for me to master a new skill. Not that you shouldn't anticipate improved performance next time." Sherlock gave John a long lick from root to tip. "For now, though...I think I will do just fine going on the principle 'don't choke, don't bite'."

"Ah...yes. Little hint of teeth at the right moment is... good, though."

"Oh." Sherlock's smile was dangerously wide. "Thank you, John."

John made it halfway through responding, "Any time".

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Night Riviera from Paddington to Penzance and Back Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10087871) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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